


Somewhere North Of Us

by th_esaurus



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Making Out, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 11:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10830840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: It’s an exercise in clearing the air. Everyone knows the first time will be awkward.





	Somewhere North Of Us

**Author's Note:**

> let's try this again.

The night before, Armie calls his wife.

“Liz, I like him,” he says, a little petulantly.

“I know you do, hon,” Elizabeth tells him. It sounds like she’s cradling the phone in the crook of her neck, her hands busy entertaining Harper. She’s good at multitasking, Armie thinks. She’s great like that.

“But I  _ really  _ like him, Liz,” Armie stresses.

“You really like a lot of people,” she says patiently, and it’s true. Elizabeth has told him more than once that, just like Armie cannot talk without using his hands, he cannot meet anyone pleasant and sweet without falling a little in love with them. He is weak for shyness, she’s told him. Wants to make up for it with his natural extroversion.

“But I don’t have to  _ kiss _ those people, Liz,” Armie carries on, knowing whatever argument he’s making here, he’s already lost.

“You don’t have to,” Elizabeth hums, “But you certainly can. Now go away. What time is it in Italy? Stupid o’clock, I’m sure.”

He glances at his watch. It’s 2am. “No. Whatever.”

“Say good-night to Daddy, Harper,” Elizabeth says, and he can hear Harper, distantly confused, say it isn’t time for bed yet; a brief explanation of time zones and latitude; and then her bright little voice yelling  _ Good-night to Daddy! _ , literal and cute.

Armie puts the phone down.

“Fuck,” he says, matter of fact.

He  _ really _ likes Timothée. 

*

It’s an exercise in clearing the air. Everyone knows the first time will be awkward. 

Timothée started the evening on a can of Coke  and has swiftly moved on to red wine, sugar and alcohol coalescing in his stomach to make him giggly and talkative. He’s been surrounded by Italians all day, and is making up for it with low, nonsensical, American conversation.

His voice is too deep for his little body. Armie’s allowed to sound cavernous and booming, but Timothée has no right. Where does that soft burr even come from? What universe does he have hidden in his lungs?

He’s pretty in a melancholy, European way, and it makes Armie dumbly poetic.

_ Fuck _ , Armie thinks, looking at Timothée’s wine-stained mouth.

“You know,” Timothée’s saying, “People never get my name right. I donno what it is, like. They can’t figure out if it’s Timo- _ tay _ or Timo- _ thay  _ or just straight up Timothy. Like, people have said to me it can’t be that because that’s too boring and I’m too interesting for it.”

“Modest,” Armie interjects.

“I know, right? You’re the only person ever who didn’t bother with that bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“Nobody else calls me Timmy. You didn’t notice?” Timothée grins, and his tongue is the colour of sangiovese.

“You don’t like it? Dude, it’s been a month, you could have--”

“No,” he says, laughing. He laughs mostly with his eyes. “No, I like it. Armie and Timmy. Better than Armand and Timothée, right?”

They had come here, specifically, to kiss. 

Armie’s hotel room is breezy and light, even in the evening sunset. The whitewashed walls and wide windows let in every speck of light from beyond the juliette balcony, absorbing and reflecting them, casting everything in a low orange glow. Timothée, too, is pale enough to eat up the tint of the light, his skin gleaming far more than it’s allowed to by day. Luca tries to keep him sheltered under parasols and patio shades: likes the contrast between Armie’s tan arms and Timothée’s palid hands. The camera likes it, Luca says.

“You wanna bite the bullet?” Armie had said earlier, a few hours before he called his wife.

“We’re professionals,” Timothée had said, nodding sternly, then cracking a vivid smile.

It’s strange to be in a room with someone you know you must kiss, Armie thinks, and want to kiss, and haven’t kissed yet. Purposefully wasting moments. Every word small talk. He thinks Timothée can sense it too. His need to speak English sated, he tails off gracefully. His face is soft. Especially his eyes.

Armie  _ really _ likes him.

“Come on, Armand,” Timothée says, patting the arm of his chair like he’s calling over a pup. Armie’s far too big to perch on the arm of a dated Venetian lounge chair, so he hoists Timothée up by his skinny waist, takes a seat, settles the kid in his lap. Natural extroversion, Elizabeth would say.

“Oh, I got it,” Timothée laughs, and then without asking, wends his arms up around Armie’s neck, and cranes up, and kisses him.

There’s a moment of still silence. Just their closed mouths pressed on each other. 

Timothée stutters out a giggle.

Armie snorts. Ends up half blowing raspberries on Timothée’s lips.

“Okay, okay,” Timothée says, making a show of regaining his composure. He settles himself better on Armie’s thighs. His legs are half as thin as Armie’s, and twice as pale in his shorts. Their dicks are maybe two inches from each other. Armie’s never fucked anyone on camera, and doesn’t know, if within the week, they’ll have touched, for real. His agent said something about a full-frontal clause in his contract, and he can’t remember the outcome of the deal.

Timothée’s kissing him again. His hand on Armie’s chest. His lips are soft, warm, almost oily, and he’s still smiling underneath Armie’s mouth. Neither of them have parted their lips yet. 

“Take it seriously,” Armie mutters, not sounding serious at all.

“You got it,” the kid shoots back, and takes a big, sucking breath through his nose. Armie laughs again, pushes his hand flat against Timothée’s stomach, makes all the air in his lungs huff right out again. They both reach for Timothée’s half full wine glass - his second of the evening - and bring it to their mouths in a badly choreographed tussle. Timothée sips; Armie takes a gulp.

“I’m more of a beer drinker,” Armie tells him, and Timothée admits, “I’ve had more espresso in the last week than in the entire rest of my life.”

“You’re a kid,” Armie says, fond.

“I’m growing out of it,” Timothée replies, shrugging, smiling. Lesser young men would have taken in for an insult.

They kiss again.

Timothée’s mouth is slack and liquid now. His hands settle nicely between the arms of the chair and Armie’s waist, and Armie tries the same, but has to cling on to Timothée’s loose shirt to keep his hands steady. Their bodies are close but there’s an awkward distance that Armie tries to broach with his tongue; licks, just a little, against Timothée’s bottom lip as if to say: is this cool? Are we cool?

“Wait, wait--” Timothée says, pulling back all of a sudden. 

“What? Sorry, I--”

“Hold up a second.” Timothée puts his thumb on Armie’s lips, and Armie isn’t sure whether to hold fire or bite down gently on his nail. He waits.

“Tell me about your first kiss,” Timothée says, decisive. “No, wait--tell me about your first kiss with your wife.”

“With Liz?” Armie’s chest swells, warm with pride, like it always does when other people ask of Elizabeth.

“You don’t call her Lizzie?” Timothée jokes, his smile goading. “I mean, it’s a pattern with you.”

“All right, listen up now,” Armie says, waving him off, and Timothée settles into his chest, his nose and mouth pressed into the skin of Armie’s neck. They’re both the same temperature, flushed and heady, and it feels like Timothée could skin into Armie’s body right there and then.

He tells the kid about how Elizabeth was well and truly off the market when Armie met her, some tall, handsome asshole, and how he - another tall and handsome asshole - had told her no, no way, you’re it, you’re the girl of my dreams, you gotta give me a shot. 

“You were the Other Woman?” Timothée laughs, and his breath is strikingly hot. 

“I’ve been told by every person I’ve ever known that I was a grade-A douchehound, so don’t you start.” Anyway, he carries on, he and Elizabeth danced this charming tango for a few weeks before she succumbed to his charm and bull-headedness, and she kissed him on the back porch of his grandfather’s river house, barefoot on the varnished wood, her long-abandoned heels in her right hand and her left hand touching his jaw. She was very improper, he said. She kissed him with her tongue, and she had not yet broken it off with the asshole boyfriend.

“Now tell me about the last time you kissed her,” Timothée murmurs. 

Armie ponders. His hand, he realises, is stroking softly up and down Timothée’s thin back, feeling every groove of his spine. 

“The last time? I guess the night before I flew out here. In bed. She was naked. Her tits are amazing, you know. She told me to put in some effort, that she was tired, so I just sort of--you know--looked after her.” Armie’s embarrassed as soon as he shuts his mouth. He’s an honest soul, full of quick truths and lumbering regret, and he wonders if Elizabeth would mind him talking to Timothée about her breasts.

(He emails her later -  _ Kissed the kid, told him I love your tits, sorry. A xxx -  _ and she replies promptly -  _ I hope it made him horny or whatever you were going for! E.) _

Timothée is quiet for a long time. His mouth is fluttering kisses on Armie’s neck, and he’s slid a little further up, their dicks pressed against each other now, through cotton shorts and underwear. The sun is almost fully set outside, the cicadas calling wildly as though they can delay its lazy descent, and Armie slips his hand into Timothée’s soft, wayward hair.

“Okay,” the kid says after a while. Presses another kiss, lower down, on Armie’s collarbone. “Kiss me somewhere between those two.”

At once, Armie cups his jaw. Cradles an arm around his head, his hand buried in Timothée’s mussed hair. He tugs it with a grip that’s too familiar for the short weeks they’ve known each other, and Timothée bares his pale neck at once, easily. His Adam’s apple is youthful, pronounced, and Armie sucks on it for a moment like he would a wet peach. 

Tilts Timothée’s head back down. Armie licks his own thumb to wet it, and runs it over Timothée’s lips, bottom then top. He likes that, smiles at that; “Nice,” he murmurs. 

“Say that again,” Armie mutters back.

“Nice--” Timothée starts, and Armie purposefully swallows the word whole. Doesn’t bother with that tentative hope for permission this time. Tastes the kid’s tongue. Tastes the wine he’d drunk, the salty coastal air, the flavour of his own spit, mingling so soon, both familiar and unusual.

Timothée makes a low, glottal noise in his throat. Where does he get off with a moan as deep as that? How early did he hit puberty, Armie thinks wildly.

“If I get hard, is that cool?” Timothée says, in the space their mouths make between kisses. 

“You mean like, now? Or later? On camera?”

“Either. Both?”

_ Fuck. _

“It’s cool,” Armie says, and pulls him in by the hips. 

*

The air is not clear, as such, but writhing and warm; humid, thick, chlorinated. 

It’s--

Yeah, it’s not gonna be awkward anymore, Armie thinks.

*

Later, Luca calls cut and tells them it was good. Very natural, very easy, he says. Like a first kiss they have imagined time and time again. Armie has his hand under Timothée’s t-shirt, on his bare belly, and doesn’t remove it between takes. Between kisses. 

He texts Elizabeth after they wrap for the day. 

_ I really like him _

She texts him back, seven minutes later.

_ I really like that you really like him. Get back to work. E. _

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
